


Through Our Veins

by Keagan_Ashleigh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Drug Use, Happy Ending, John is moving back to Baker Street, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Night time confessions, Pining, Scars, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sick Sherlock, There's something on your face: IT WAS PAIN, it hurted me to write this, poisoned Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keagan_Ashleigh/pseuds/Keagan_Ashleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had been poisoned by a plant called datura, inducing hallucinations and fever, John gathers all his efforts to ease the detective pain, and in the darkness of the night, words are said. In the morning, Sherlock doesn't seem to remember. Was it real? Does Sherlock remembers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An anecdote: there is a sex scene, yep, not that explicit but still smutty, which honestly isn't my speciality. As I was writing it, at something around 3 am there has been a electricity cut, for two or three minutes. I was scared to death, I have a utter fear of the dark, and then after the lights came back I burst into laugh as I realised what I was doing. I don't know if it sounds funny for anyone but me but I think it's funny - I write sex and all the lights shut down. 
> 
> Anyway. About the fic, there is a playlist to listen with it - you're not forced to but as it happens these are tunes that are directly chosen to match this fic so somehow it works inherently with it.  
> [Here it is.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLD7lJLcU1bN3TWFarUCMQGzcGJZ-YXERq)  
> There is some M83 and Zack Hemsey, and some epic pop, amongst other stuff.
> 
> And also, more seriously, a lot more seriously, I had to write a scene about John injecting drug in Sherlock to simulate the symptoms of the poison that had been given to him, so they can catch the criminal. That was a pretty difficult scene to write as you can imagine, and honestly, I will ask you to be cautious with it. If you're not sure you can read it, don't. (it's the sixth chapter)

Sherlock was wandering into the streets when John found him, earlier this evening, when the sky turns violet and the air starts to cool down, when the passers by are the most incline to feel the streets as a living poetry. 

He looked terrible, as if a trunk as rolled over him multiple times for a whole day. Wasted was the right word – though it still seemed as an euphemism.  
John had looked for him all day after he got a disturbing text, a nonsensical series of incoherent words - “Devil inside. Foot.” - and words that weren’t actual words, even if they were probably intended to be so. John had asked Sherlock where he was, all he received was “hell”.  
Something was wrong, everyone would have understood that. 

But not everyone would have felt their heart drop into their chest and see the world turn black around them, all sounds melting and fading as a negligible buzzing, far beyond the edges of consciousness; and hurry without any other thought to Baker Street and then in the streets and parks around (after having told Mrs Hudson to call him right away if Sherlock came back in the meantime), phoning Sherlock who wasn’t responding, his brother who didn’t know anything and promised he’d try, and Lestrade who sent people to scan the streets of London, and finally catching sight of the tall silhouette stumbling on the greyish pavement of Strutton Ground, not far from Westminster Abbey.  
He appeared like a walking shadow under the sky turning purple and the streets lamps outpouring their orange lights on the ground like rivers of gold – bent as if he was the mythical Atlas holding the world on his back, afflicted by its weight, waiting in eternity for deliverance. He seemed old, crooked and dragging his feet clumsily, as if it was the first time he tried to walk. 

“Oh Christ.” John had whispered, just half relieved, shutting down the phone he was holding at his ear, Mycroft's voice fading, an unheard “ _take care of him_ ” hanging in the space between - closing the distance between them in a few big steps. He got to Sherlock just as he was tumbling down, as if his knees weren’t strong enough anymore to hold his weight, as if the ground opened under his feet.  
He didn’t seemed to notice John was there, though he grabbed John’s sleeves so tightly his knuckles turned to white, revealing the shape of the bones underneath the skin, his skin that was feeling like a burning fire under John’s hands. He was trembling, and seemed to look for something around him, debiting an uninterrupted flow of whispers.

Finally he seemed to realise he was being held, and looked up toward John with restless eyes, shining with fever, looking for something – for reality, for a revelation maybe – in John's face, scanning the space frantically, blinking away tiny drops of sweat and tiredness tears. Even with Sherlock's eyes pointing at him John wasn't sure Sherlock was seeing him. John's stomach clenched as it hit him how frightened Sherlock was.  
“I'm here. It's me, Sherlock, I'm taking you home. Everything is all right.”  
“ There is ashes in my mouth.” Sherlock mumbled, the words falling as rocks from his dried mouth. “It's okay, I'm gonna take care of you.”  
“It crawls everywhere. We are ashes.” Sherlock started to scratch his hand, as if he wanted to take away the invisible ashes from his skin, leaving long red trails on the pale skin. John stopped him, capturing Sherlock's hand in his own, pushing it away. Sherlock hadn't enough strength to protest.  
“There is no ashes. Hold on.” John placed Sherlock's arm around his neck and helped him walk, his grip tight around Sherlock's emaciated waist.  
John hadn't seen Sherlock for a week, unbelieving it was even possible he felt even sadder to think that this was older than his sickness. How much meals did Sherlock skipped while he was away?

They were only around three miles from Baker Street, which wouldn't have been a long walk but John considered wisely it would make no good to Sherlock who was barely able to put a foot before the other. Sherlock fell in a restless sleep during the ride, moaning as if he was in pain, his long fingers clenched around the fabric of John's jumper, as if he would fall if he let go of John.  
In an attempt to calm him, after a brief hesitation, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock to keep him close, rubbing his arm. Sherlock was sweating and shivering, and mumbling. The cabbie asked if he should drive them to the hospital instead, but John reassured him by saying he was a doctor and could take care of the man himself.

When they arrived to Baker Street a few minutes later, the cabbie helped John to get Sherlock out of the car and to walk toward the flat. They put him on the sofa, and still concerned, the cabbie walked out after John gave him more money than necessary to thank him.  
It will be alright, he assured. And the driver was not yet out of the flat that John hurried to the kitchen to wet a clean rag that he wiped on Sherlock's forehead, cheeks and neck, while Mrs Hudson came to offer her help. 

“Is there any ibuprofen somewhere?” John asked her. “We have to reduce the fever. He's burning.”

Mrs Hudson nodded a no.

“I'm going to see if I find something in my drawers.” She said, her voice tainted with worry, while walking to her flat. “But I don't think I have, I've never got even a flu!”

When she was out of reach, John talked to Sherlock, slowly, the words hesitant.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, listen to me, have you- have you taken anything? Can you hear me? I need to know.”  
“No,” Sherlock shouted as loudly as he could (which wasn't much). “Leave me – my sun. My... The devil burns inside. The devil... Where is the sun? Where is my sun? There is a hole inside of me. The sun...”

John couldn't be sure the “no” really answered his question, nor he was sure Sherlock knew where and with who he was – for what he was saying made no sense. Then he remembered the list. Carefully he helped Sherlock to sit so he could take off his coat and jacket, and looked in the pockets for the list, if there was any.  
He sighed when he found there wasn't one, and searched carefully in Sherlock's trousers pockets, finding none here either.  
This was a relief, Sherlock wouldn't have forget, but the relief was soon replaced by anguish. Sherlock was sick anyway, and the fever was making him rave so badly it was worrisome. The fear John saw in his eyes earlier was indicating how bad it was. List or not, Sherlock was in agony, leaving a pain stuck in John's guts. He shook his head to gather his thoughts and regain the cold blooded composure of the doctor he was.

Usually a fever is a useful process, and have a reason to be, but if it's too bad it has to be lowered, otherwise it can cause severe lesions. But the fever in itself is not what worries John the most. It's that Sherlock was obviously in pain, hallucinating, and hypotonic – furthermore, according to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock didn't suffered from a banal flu. No matter how good Sherlock is to hide when he feels bad, he can't hide a flu, he never even tried when it happened as John was still living at Baker Street, he always made sure everyone was aware, actually, especially John - there was in fact a lot of possible causes – including meningitis or septicaemia for the most common, though John didn't thought it was it.  
This is why he asked Sherlock what drugs he took, if he had, because these also where symptoms of chemical poisoning, often induced by the ingestion of bad drugs like cocaine, acid or heroin. And he needed to know what it was, because giving Sherlock a medicine to lower the fever could make things worse if only the molecules were incompatible.  
John took Sherlock pulse – the detective's heart was beating very fast, irregularly. The fever had to be lowered. Mrs Hudson wasn't coming back yet, so John decided to run him a tepid bath – exactly two degrees below Sherlock's body temperature, colder could possibly provoke a thermal shock – the blood vessels would compress, the heart would lower its rhythm and then oxygen would flow quickly in the brain, inducing a syncope, Sherlock would faint and need to be reanimated -, and undoubtedly Sherlock didn't need that. 

 

“John.”

The voice seemed calm, though tainted with pain, croaked and whispering, John startled as he was checking Sherlock's exact temperature with an electronic thermometer he took from a drawer in the kitchen – glad to see it had remained unmoved even after all this time. 106.34 degree Farenheit (41.3 degrees Celsius). 

“I'm here.” John replied while pushing absent-mindedly a dark curl away from Sherlock's sweating forehead. Sherlock raised a hand weakely, searching for something. For John. John grabbed Sherlock's hand still murmuring while watching Sherlock's eyes moving under his eyelids, the long lashes casting dancing shadows above his reddened cheeks: “I'm here. I'm right here.”  
“I'm alone.”  
“You're not. I'm here.”  
“I've lost you. Don't know where I am. Alone. I'm alone in the dark – it's all dark, I've killed the light. Alone...”

John felt like something in his chest was breaking, he felt his eyes tingle and swallowed back the tears that threatened to flow.

“Sherlock...” he breathed in a choking sound. “You're not alone, you're home with me.”  
“They're all dancing. I wish I really had died.”  
“Don't say that. You don't think that. It's the fever, that's all, don't- don't say that.”  
Mrs Hudson came to say she hadn't found what John was looking for, but handed him a bunch of medicines that she thought maybe could be of any help, to whom he answered he would take care of it by himself, trying to reassure her, and maybe himself as well, in vain. He thanked her and told her to go to sleep, maybe a bit more harshly than he intended. And examined the little boxes – acetaminophen, this will be perfect. He took one tab and a glass of water, straightened Sherlock's head just enough so he could swallow the pill and water. In a matter of one or two hours Sherlock will feel much better.  
“They are all dancing and the devil is dancing.” Sherlock kept rambling.  
“Why are you always talking about the devil? There is no devil, just you and me. There's just you and me.”  
“... you and me.” Sherlock echoed. “He won. It's burning.”  
“Who? What is burning, Sherlock?”  
“My heart.”

Sherlock stopped talking for while, only time to time whispering half words John couldn't grasp. So he got up and walked to the bathroom, then came back to carry Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

John braced himself to take Sherlock's clothes off. He had already taken off Sherlock's shoes and socks earlier, and right now he would have liked to still have this to do first. He took off his trousers first, his cheeks flushing for a moment before the professionalism and necessity came to chase away his embarrassment. “I had imagined this under other circumstances”, he thought. He placed then Sherlock in the bathtub, not caring about taking off his pants. Then, knelt beside the bathtub, he started to unbutton the white shirt half damped in water and half in sweat.  
Sherlock was barely responding, but John could feel he was trying to comply, to help John undress him, as he tried to straighten up. When he bent Sherlock forward – holding him tightly with his arm across Sherlock's chest - so he could finish to take off the shirt, Sherlock grabbed the edge of the bathtub, holding the position as strongly as he could, and groaned, trying to resist.

“You can't see.”

But John could. Already through the shirt rendered translucent by the mixture of water and sweat, John could see. He pulled delicately the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders, uncovering the top of his back first, then took delicately his forearm to slide the sleeve off his arm, then doing the same again for the other side, and threw the shirt away without taking his eyes off of Sherlock's back.  
Across said back and shoulders a dozen of scars, some barely visible, a few puffy and pinkish.  
His eyes frowned, John stretched his hand toward Sherlock's skin, stopping in the air, hesitating as if touching it would make Sherlock's skin tear apart, his whole body shatter. Slowly, he traced the length of a scar with his finger, his touch light as a breath. 

“Who did that to you.” John asked with a voice croaked with anger, though he wasn't expecting Sherlock to be able to give him an answer.  
“Life.”

How was it possible that life was so cruel? John thought. Carefully, he helped Sherlock to lie in the bathtub, resting his head on the edge, and took a flannel to damp it with water, and began to wash Sherlock's head and shoulders, wetting his hair by wringing softly the flannel above his head. After a few minutes the water went slightly hotter, John started to pour some fresh water from the shower head, on Sherlock's hands and wrists, holding the limbs as he would hold a small bird fallen from its nest. Sherlock seemed to suffer less, and after a while his temperature started to lower.  
When he considered it was enough, John helped him to stand up and wrapped him in a big towel, rubbing his limbs kindly, even kindlier on his back and shoulders, Sherlock's chest against his, head resting on his shoulder, supporting Sherlock's whole weight. 

Then, he put Sherlock to bed, still wrapped in the towel he took off the wet pants, trying not to look at him, in a sense of bashfulness, covering him with the sheets, Sherlock was already drifting to sleep.  
John went to change his own shirt all damped in water, thankful of the decision he took to bring back a few clothes after Mary was gone with her child. He had thought about coming back to Baker Street, but it had felt like he couldn't bring himself to come back to his old life. Too many things had changed and he wasn't sure he was ready, even though all he wanted was to be with Sherlock everyday from dawn till dusk, if not from dusk till dawn. It was with this hesitation that he decided to bring back a bit of himself to Baker Street, while not entirely coming back yet, waiting for Sherlock to ask him to. Waiting for the perfect moment – which sometimes he feared would never come.

When he came back to the kitchen to drink a glass of wine, he heard Sherlock's fainted voice call his name, so he dropped everything and rushed to the bedroom.

“John...”  
“I'm here.”  
In the darkness of the room John saw the hand Sherlock was stretching outside the sheets, toward him. A simple gesture that was visibly taking him a lot of effort, consuming his weakened strength. Taking a few steps he reached the bed and grabbed the hand colder from the shower, still heated by the sickness, and squat near the bed.  
“I thought you left. I thought I was alone.”  
“You are never alone.” John replied, content that Sherlock had apparently regained a bit of lucidity, though he was sure there'd be some other episodes of raving as he knew the fever would fluctuate during the night before stabilising.  
The silence settled and John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep again when the low voice asked hesitantly and weakly:  
“Can you stay?”  
“I've no intention on going away tonight, I'll be around if you need me.”  
“No. I mean... Here.”  
“In your room, you mean?” John felt a pitch of anguish making his fingers tingle, the feeling running up through his arms as swarming tides.  
A silence, only disturbed by the sound of the pillow under Sherlock's movement – in the dim light coming through the kitchen John saw him nod.  
“Ok.” John breathed. “Let me go grab a chair and turn off the lights then.”  
“You can't sleep on a chair.”  
“I've done it before, and I'm not tired anyway, that's ok.”  
“There's enough room for us both on this bed.”

John startled in surprise, looked for something to protest, gave up as he could hear the supplication in Sherlock's tired voice hidden under the matter-of-fact tone that was his speciality. So he went to turn off the lights and took place beside Sherlock on the bed, still fully clothed, shifting, trying to find the right position, feeling awkward.

They said nothing for a long while, and at some point John was convinced Sherlock had fallen asleep, his breath was still a bit erratic but calm, and he could sometimes hear him mumble and shiver. John didn't know how much time passed, it felt like a minute, maybe like a lifetime. His thoughts were drifting before his eyes, sleep didn't seem to welcome him.  
He still had the image of Sherlock's back in his thoughts, and his words echoing endlessly.  
How much pain did he had to go through to keep him safe? Of course he knew at what moment the scars had appeared. Before he died Sherlock had never been afraid to let his back be seen. But now that he thinks of it, John had never seen him anymore even take off his jacket when they were in the same room. John felt guilty. Guilty of not having asked. Of not having noticed. Guilty that it was all his fault.  
Sherlock must have felt so alone back then, maybe even more since he came back, John felt like he could have been a better friend – like he should have been. But how could he be a good friend, when he desired so much more? When he knew it was all he could ever have? He tried. But surely he wasn't the friend Sherlock was expecting for. All he had ever offered was loneliness and pain, he convinced himself, forgetting the goodness he placed in Sherlock's life, forgetting how he has always been the best friend he could have dreamed of. _I have never been enough_ , he thought, _though being more would have been too much for you - impossible_.

“I am sorry”, he whispered against the darkness and silence. Next to him John felt Sherlock shift – intentionally or not, he couldn't tell, Sherlock's hand came to rest against his forearm, just above his wrist, soft and feverish, slightly trembling. John rolled on his side without loosing the contact and placed his left hand upon Sherlock's – his eyes accustomed to darkness drawing the contour of the body lying beside of him. 

Sherlock was agitated, as if he was having a bad dream, and sweat began to damp his temples – John could see the little drops shining in the night lights flowing through the curtains. Without thinking he pulled Sherlock closer, sliding his right arm under Sherlock's shoulders, making him roll so he had his whole length against John, his head against John's chest, his right hand on John's waist, heavy and warm.  
John began to rock, slowly, in silence, his breath short and heart tighten in the awareness of the boldness of his move. 

“Come back.” John heard Sherlock sigh, his voice coming far from behind the veil of fever and delirium, his body shaking against John's. “I'm dying alone. My heart is burning.”  
“It will be better tomorrow.”  
“It'll never be. It would be better if I had no heart.”  
“That's not true.”  
“How would you know?”  
“I just do.”  
“Can you chase away the pain?”  
“I think I can.”  
“I should have died.”  
“Don't you ever say that again. You hear me?”  
“You would have been happier.”  
“Shut up.”  
“And I would be at peace.”  
“Sherlock, please, just stop.”  
“It hurts too much. I need you.”

John brushed Sherlock's temple with his thumb, caressed his hair gently, still rocking, trying to deafen the sound of his whimper.  
“Sherlock, I'm right here, I will always be there for you, always. Don't you know how much you mean the world to me? Don't ever say the world would be better off without you in it, because I've seen what it's like, it was – it felt like being dead, I don't ever want to live that again. The word makes no sense without you.”  
“I'm so tired.”  
“I know, sweetheart, I know. I am tired too.”  
“My heart isn't sweet. It's all ashes and dust and coldness.”  
“No.”  
“Even you know it. You said so.”  
“I was wrong. If I ever believed my own words. I know you have a heart of gold, Sherlock, and no one can convince me otherwise. I know you always cared so much. I know you risked your life to keep your friends safe. Do you really think someone cold as a stone would be capable of such a sacrifice? You are the best man I have ever known.”  
“I am worthless.”  
“You made my life a life worth living. You saved me, you always do. You worth so much more than you think.”  
“You left.”  
“I'm sorry.” John whispers, feeling the tears running along his nose, hot and thick. He kissed the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in the smell of the curls still humid. “I should have been there for you.”  
“It's my fault. Everything.”  
“Oh god no. It's not.”  
“I've killed the lights. The sun is dying. It's fading. The devil is dancing on the ashes. The Devil inside is dancing on my bones. Everyone is dancing and I am alone – left alone in the dark. I've dropped my heart at your feet and you left and I left and the devil's watching and laughing and dancing.”

John closed his eyes tightly, trying to make the tears stop flowing, with the pain that Sherlock was raving and probably didn't really heard what he said. He let exhale a sight holding all the despair of his aching heart. 

“I love you.” He choked. “I love you so much. I love you more than words can express, so much more than I will ever be able to say. I love every inch of you. I love you so much my heart is aching. I've never believed in love at first sight but for you I've become a believer. I love you since I first saw your smile, since I first heard your voice, your eyes piercing right through me, and I'm fairly sure I will love you for the rest of my life, until the end of the Universe I will love you. I left because I love you. I know it sounds stupid, but did love has ever made sense? Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry I left, I'm so sorry. I had always loved you and living in a word where you were dead was so hard I tried to run away. I thought it would disappear with time but it never did and then you came back and it was too late. You came back and it was still so painful to love you. It will still be when you wake up tomorrow, it will still be the day after. And the day after that.”

“It won't be.” Sherlock murmured as he weakly pulled away from John, looking in his eyes, he slid his hand along John's side to his face, to wipe the trails of tears.  
“Oh Sherlock, I wish you weren't off your head.” John replied with a sad smile, cupping Sherlock's face. “I wish you could remember this tomorrow.”  
“I will. I promise you I will.”

Sherlock closed the gap between them. His lips were hot against John's, dried and tired, the kiss was shy and soft. John closed his eyes, grabbing Sherlock's curls, kissing Sherlock back fervently, a myriad of peppered kisses, on the corner of Sherlock's mouth, on his cheeks, under his eyes, to his temples and his nose and his lips again. He took Sherlock's hand that was resting against his neck, and kissed the palm as if he was drinking water from it. Sherlock let out a sight of contentment as John pulled him closer against him, hugging him tight.  
“I love you.” Sherlock said while drifting to sleep.  
John closed his eyes, and sleep came to claim him as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was already high in the sky when John woke up. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, trying to collect the pieces of consciousness and memories from last night. It took him a while to register Sherlock wasn't against him anymore. He turned to see Sherlock wasn't in the bed.   
He tried to hear the sounds coming from the flat, but it was silent. So he stood up and walked to the kitchen, seeing no one. He found Sherlock sitting on the ground his back against the sofa, the sheets wrapped around his waist, unconscious. John squat next to him and grabbed his bare shoulders to shake him softly, cupped his face, noting that Sherlock was still a bit feverish, though not as much as the day before.

“Sherlock?” he called softly, unable to hide his worry. “Please, Sherlock, open your eyes. Sherlock?”  
Sherlock blinked, his eyes still closed, fighting to open them. When he managed to do it, he smiled.  
“Hey. I must have faint. I'm ok.”  
“Thank God. What were you doing here?”  
“I... I don't remember. Ah, yes. I woke up. And you were sleeping, I didn't wanted to wake you up, and I needed to...” He gestured vaguely toward the room.   
“You could have waken me up.”  
“I'm ok.”  
“You are sick, you'll be ok when your doctor says so, which happens to be me.”  
“I'm not sick, I've been poisoned.”  
“That's what I suspected. By what?”  
“I think I told you.”  
“When?”  
“Yesterday. I vaguely remember I sent you a text.”  
“All you sent me was “devil inside” and “foot”.”  
“Ah. Not 'foot': 'root'. I must have meant 'devil's snare', in fact – I've no idea how I came up with 'root'... One of _datura stramonium_ 's common name. It's known as a powerful hallucinogen, and provoke fever, cardiac troubles and memory loss if overdose there is, which I fear is the case. I think you should take me to the hospital now. I don't think I've received a lethal dose but we need to get it out of my system. The longer we wait...”  
“Alright. Say no more, I got it.” John stood up, helping Sherlock to follow, still too weak to stand by his own. “Let me help you dress.”  
“I'm ok.”  
“Sherlock!” John scolded.  
“Ok.”

For all the travel to Saint Barts Sherlock did no mention of what had happen during the night, and avoided to touch John more than necessary, even avoiding eye contact – if John had looked closer, if Sherlock had let him see, he would have caught the shame in Sherlock's eyes, in the way he was biting his lips.   
First John felt as if a knife had been dived into his heart, then he realised Sherlock talked about memory loss. Oh. He forgot, then. A deep sadness stroke him as he thought everything was back to where it was, the memory of Sherlock's kiss burning against his lips. Maybe after all he didn't even wanted to do this. Maybe it meant nothing to him. “Maybe he wasn't realising it was me.” John thought painfully.  
So John acted as if nothing happened. He took all of his thoughts and kept them locked somewhere in his mind, bottling up as he always did. It was so easy for him to do it, like a second nature, he had done this for all his life, even more often since he met Sherlock. There was more important matter right now, he will deal with his sadness later, when he'll be alone in his room, diving into the bitter taste of regrets and the crushing feeling that life could be brighter, but would never be, because in the end he doesn't deserve it. He will look at the ceiling above his head and wish for his heart to stop beating. He will swallow up the tears and lock the screams in his throat. He will deal with it. He will make his way through pain just like he always did, concealing, letting it explode disguised as a burning rage.   
He will manage this disappointment later, for now he needed to make sure Sherlock will not have to suffer more worrisome damages because of this poison. Then he will find the person who did this to him, and he will make sure they measure the importance of not messing up with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

They arrived to the hospital quickly, in the meantime Sherlock had fallen again into an episode of delirium, the medical team had to put him on a stretcher and hurried around him like bees around a hive, placing a mask on his face, plugging a catheter in his vein. Taking him.   
John was ready to follow, but a doctor stopped him, they would take care of him if he explained what happened, told them the medical story of his life.   
John answered the best he could to all the questions the doctor – who presented herself as Dr Moore - patiently asked him, hurrying him a little. John thanked his good memory and reported all he knew about the poison, the datura plant. The doctor nodded as she wrote on a notepad everything John told her. 

“We will need to keep him for a few days. The recovery will be uneasy, but we'll do our best to bring your friend back, ok? You should go now, we will put him to sleep to help his system to reject the poison.”  
“No I'm good, I'll stay.”  
“As you wish. But there is no use, really.”

The doctor didn't gave John the opportunity to answer. He waited a couple minutes in the hallway, not knowing what to do with himself. As Dr Moore said, there was nothing else to do but wait, and for John there was nothing more unbearable than the passiveness of waiting, the feeling of not being of any help, useless. He needed to do something, but where to begin? Sherlock didn't took the time to tell him when and where he had been attacked and less alone by who. Really, there was nothing more to do if not searching blindly for a clue, anything. That would have meant going away, leaving Sherlock alone. They would keep him in intensive care for the whole day, if not until tomorrow.   
A dead-end. For now. Frustration was rising in his chest, when a small hand landed shyly on his shoulder.

“Hey John.” The voice was soft and tiny, holding all the goodness of the person from which it was coming from, John recognised it instantly.   
“Molly.” He said with a bit of involuntary anger in his voice.  
“I took a break. Not so much dead people to look after, these days. I usually go upstairs, just to see – a bit more of living ones, y'know. Greg called yesterday to tell me Sherlock was missing. When I saw you, I asked Lauren – she's over there – if they admitted... Is Sherlock all right?”

Her voice that was at first only awkward expressed all her concern, and somehow John felt himself soften, seeing the uneasiness in her chocolate coloured eyes, frowning, her mouth reduced to a thin line. He had never been very close with Molly but she was fundamentally a good person, this was a quality he admired. He had been jealous and mad when Sherlock told him she knew and helped him to fake his death, but after a moment of reflection he had realised she probably saved his life. He was grateful for this. There was so much they shared, in fact, John had began to appreciate her, rather than seeing her as a rival. When she presented Tom though, he felt as happy for her as relieved – and amused that even then, she seemed like a mirror to him. She tried to move on the same way he did with Mary. It didn't end well for either of them, and John had felt sorry for her. She deserved more. He was hoping she would have a better luck than him, and he was hoping she would see that her happiness wasn't so far as she believed, so when Lestrade finally asked her out, he felt happy for her, truly. Maybe this was were the mirroring was ending, and he was glad at least one of them had the chance to be finally at peace with themselves. 

“He will be ok. He got poisoned, don't know by who yet. The doctors are taking care of him. He'll be ok.”  
“Oh that's a relief. And you?”  
“I... I'm ok.”  
“I was about to grab some coffee to the cafeteria, do you want to come with me?”  
John was about to say no when he realised how weary he was feeling – it had been a long, restless night, and his stomach was empty since the previous morning. He was hungry and some coffee would be a blessing. He nodded yes, and followed Molly through the corridors. 

The cafeteria was full of people, and John almost regretted his decision. They both took a coffee and a sandwich, and John was surprised to see Molly walk away to the exit door.  
Seeing he wasn't following her, she turned and said kindly:

“I guess you'd like to be in a more quiet place. I know the perfect spot for that.”  
“The morgue?”  
“Yes. Unless it makes you uncomfortable.”  
“No, no, not at all. It'll be just perfect.”


	4. Chapter 4

So he followed Molly, walking through the familiar corridors joining the hospital to the morgue where he went so often in the past few years. It had become more difficult when all he was seeing was Sherlock's dead body on a slack, the ghost of him wandering in the white lights of the hallways - as he had been asked to identify the body.   
He never knew at the time why they asked him specifically, Molly could have done it herself; or his parents, or Mycroft, anyone, in fact. It became evident after it was revealed that Sherlock wasn't dead. They needed to make him believe it. He wished he could go back and say there was no need. 

It took him three years before he was able to enter the morgue again. Each time Sherlock asked him to accompany him, he found an excuse, even avoiding to cross Saint Barts' entry door. Then he couldn't avoid it anymore. It would have meant leaving Sherlock fighting his way back to life alone, and he couldn't.

Molly drove John to the lab adjoining the morgue itself, the room was empty if not for the instruments beeping and buzzing lightly. She pushed away one of the microscopes John had often seen Sherlock use, from the first day they met, and grabbed two chairs on which they sat.

“I don't think I ever said thank you to you.” John said, surprising Molly.  
“For what?” She smiled, before taking a bite in her sandwich.  
“You are always nice with me, though I must have been the rudest person you ever met, and I never said thank you for everything you've done for Sherlock and for me.”  
“You're not the rudest person I ever met.”  
“Are you really sure of that?” John asked, laughing.  
“Oh yes!”  
“I have trouble believing that. Who's ruder than me then?”  
“Sherlock.” She answered sadly after a few seconds of hesitation, regretting saying this the moment she said it. “I mean. He's not that rude but he... I shouldn't have said that. Forget it.”  
“He can be a dickhead when he wants. He did hurt you, didn't he?”  
“That's far in the past now, really I'm sorry, that was dumb of me to say that, I don't even mean it.”  
“I'm sure he feels sorry for how he treated you.”  
“Maybe. I don't know. It doesn't matter, I'm being selfish, I don't know how I'm daring saying this after all the good he's done, I'm so stupid.”  
“No, you aren't.”  
“Can we change the subject?”  
“Absolutely. What d'you want to talk about?”

Molly hesitated a moment.

“Are you okay? I mean, in general. You seem tired. You always seems like something weights on your shoulders and I had thought that it was because of Mary, but you still... look so tired. I'm sorry if I'm bothering you but I'm just worried about you, that is all.”  
“That's true I am tired. But don't worry for me, I'm all right. Everything is all right. It will be even more when Sherlock get out of the hospital. They said they had to keep him for the week. At least this time his life isn't at stake, he'll be all right.”  
“Yes. But that's not all, is it?”

There was such a fondness in Molly's question, John felt like he could trust her enough to confide, just a little of his pain. He was sure she could understand, though he didn't know how to express his feelings.

“No. That's not all.” He let the words sink in. “When he comes back to Baker Street, when he's healed. It'll be all as it was before. I can't.”  
“Why don't you tell him?”  
“I did. I don't think he remembers. He was raving and this goddamn poison... I don't think he remembers.”  
“So maybe you should try again.”  
“If only that was easy.”  
“It never is. But I think he'll listen. I think he loves you more than he says. You have always been the most important for him.”  
“And then he so often said he was married to his work.”  
“But you are part of his work. Surely he loves the cases and all but he loves you more, I saw it long ago, but I didn't thought it would matter to you to know.”  
“It does.”  
“I'm sorry, I didn't know, I thought you were...”  
“Straight? In love with Mary? That's what I hoped everyone to believe. Don't be hard on yourself, you couldn't know.” John reassured, putting his hand on Molly's wrist as her hand was resting on the table. “But I think you're wrong. If he does love me, that must be as a friend, not more.”  
“I guess you will have to ask him yourself.” she answered softly. “But remember that I told you. So when you come see me next time I can tell you: I told you so.”  
“What makes you so sure of yourself?”

Molly laughed as a specific memory came instantly in her mind.

“He stuck your photograph on the Vitruvian Man. He came to me for advices when he was preparing your stag night. He shown me a file as big as _War and Peace_ , and the first document he handed me was the Vitruvian Man, with your head on it. I had doubts already – actually I had pretty good hints when he called me by your name, as if he forgot _I_ was here - but that is really what makes me sure of myself. He thinks you're perfect.”  
“I am not.”  
“No one is, thought that's what he thinks of you. And I never told you...”  
“What?”  
“I never told you how he looked when he left your wedding.”  
“You saw him leave? Why haven't you said anything? I looked for him everywhere that night. I thought he forgot his violin.”  
“I thought he just wanted to be alone. That that's what he needed. I'm sorry, I've made a mistake. Will you forgive me?”  
“Yes, of course, but tell me, why did he left? Did he said something?”  
“I haven't talked to him, but I saw him. He was sad. Sadder than I ever saw him. If the Vitruvian Man convinced me that he had a big crush on you, the look on his face when he left finished to convince me he was in love with you. I remember I felt mad at him, because it meant that all this time, he made me believe... He fooled me, knowing it would have never worked, because he is gay. I failed to see that, and I was so stupid. But that's ok, I'm over it now, and now there is Greg and I love him, and he does love me, and I am happy now, but that night I was mad at Sherlock and I think that maybe it has clouded my judgement, and I said nothing. He does love you John, and I know you do too, I think you should consider give it a second chance.”

 _They are all dancing and I'm alone._ Suddenly Sherlock raving made sense. He was talking about the wedding, about the moment he left. John felt his heart breaking, though Molly's last words were easing his pain. She was right, there was hope.

“Bless you, Molly”, John whispered as taking both her hands in his own. “I'm glad I can count you as a friend.”  
“I am, too.”

They spent a few minutes finishing their coffee and lunch, talking about random things, trying to ease their worry, when finally Molly sent John back home. Molly succeeded where Dr Moore failed, she convinced him it would be better if he came back when Sherlock was awake. She promised she'd phone him as soon as she'll get any news.


	5. Chapter 5

John went first to the house he once shared with Mary. He hated the place, so full of bad memories and lies, but also so full of the laughters of the child he thought was his own. Maybe it has been one of the reasons why he stayed here instead of moving back to Baker Street.   
He walked in circle in the living room, the sun flowing through the window, he stopped in front of it and looked at the sky. White puffy clouds drifted slowly before the sun, hiding its light time to time, drifting. Time was running out. He had waited far too long to decide. The peacefulness of the sky fell on his heart, he knew what to do. 

He packed as many things as he could, he was surprised to see in the end that there was only two small boxes. Clothes, toothbrush, some books, his laptop, his gun, photographs, a cup, odds and ends, souvenirs and gifts, an envelope in which the melody of a waltz resigned to its silence, resigned to never be played again, the music of Sherlock's broken heart.  
He picked one photograph from his wedding book, the one were him and Sherlock were standing under the sunlight. He let his finger wander along Sherlock's face, tracing the curves of the wrinkles framing his eyes, his visage shining as if he was the sun himself. His eyes glimmering and piercing far through the surface of paper, through John's soul.  
It hits him now. He sees. The sadness in Sherlock's bright eyes was so striking John reproached himself how blind he has been.   
If only he could go back in time. If he had the chance to start it over again, he would have done things differently. He would have run away with him when he had the chance. If only he had known. If only he hadn't been so blind.

“I am sorry. I wish I could go back and do it all differently. That's too late now. If you love me as much as Molly said – as you said -, maybe there is a chance for us to take. I won't make the same mistakes again.”

Finishing to pack the photographs in the boxes, he went to Baker Street, and unpacked. He put his clothes in his room, the photographs took their place against the wall, next to the ones he never took away with him. That one where the sun seemed to glow only for Sherlock, his face radiating, his eyes still and always piercing through everything, through dimensions and space, it seems, turquoise in the sunlight. This was his favourite. But because it called back the pain in his guts, and because he cherished it so much, he left it on the wall when he left Baker Street. He was happy to find it again, after so long, he was happy to see the memory he kept from it was not as magnificent as the picture. Which itself will never be as magnificent as Sherlock.   
That day, Sherlock had asked him why he took a picture. What could be so worthy of being kept on paper. John had to struggle not to reveal the simple, so obvious, “ _you_ ”. 

When he was able to detach his eyes from the picture, he went downstairs, and put his toothbrush in the glass where Sherlock's was. Right into place. No other simple act seemed as meaningful and right than this one. John felt stupid for not having done this before.   
The bathroom now seemed almost as it was before things turned bad. Though it was not yet as it should be. John took the clothes that were lying on the floor, smelling like sweat and moisture, and threw them in a basket he will later bring to Mrs Hudson. We should get a washing machine, he thought. Then he washed the floor, the bathtub, the mirror. Now it was perfect. Just as it used to be.

Finally, he took his laptop and placed it on the desk, where he sat and started to read his mails. Nothing interesting, some cases he could have solved himself – and Sherlock and he wouldn't have taken any new cases anyway. He looked around him and sighed, thinking: “This is home. Almost. There is just one thing missing. Soon it will really be all as it should be.”  
He let himself dream awake about noises, and smells, Sherlock saying there's no milk left, that he is bored, Sherlock walking around the flat in one of his glorious dressing gown, Sherlock playing his violin like a virtuoso, or striking the cords absent-mindedly, making it howl like a hurt wolf, Sherlock experimenting on some suspicious substance, Sherlock sulking, Sherlock reading dumb magazines, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's laughter, Sherlock's tantrums, Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock's hands, Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.

His watch was marking five o'clock when his phone rang, it was Molly, saying Sherlock had been placed in waking room. Without any hesitation he ran to the door, in the twenty minutes that followed he was at Saint Barts, sitting next to Sherlock's bed, waiting for him to open his eyes.

“Hey.” John murmured, his eyes framed with wrinkles, shining with fondness. Sherlock gave him his brightest smile, despite his weakness.  
“John.”  
“Feeling better?”  
“A bit. At least I can hear myself think, now.”  
“You are remarkable, you know.”  
“Really? Why?”  
“I've seen the doctor, she said you can come home as soon as tomorrow morning. She said usually they don't hope a complete recovery before three or four days, sometimes more. You're beating up statistics. Again.”  
“This will be a long night.”  
“Impatient to go home?”  
“Yes. But I can't.”  
“Why?” John asked, taken aback, disappointed.   
“The woman who drugged me, she must have wanted to kill me. She has to expect me to be nearly dead by now, and I need to make her believe she succeeded.”  
“A woman? You know who she is?”  
“Of course. Do you remember I told you I was working on a case, a young girl had gone missing, Victoria Jenkins, she was almost eighteen. Her body had been found a few weeks ago, I was called by her best friend to investigate. She had been poisoned, I was sure of it, though the poison was undetectable. Her aunt – Culley Smith - his a renowned professor from the School of Biological and Chemical Science, she's specialised in neurology. As Victoria's only living parent, and given her status, plus some evidences I had examined, she seemed to be my principal suspect. I met her yesterday at noon, when I was outside her office, I was delirious and my veins seemed like filled with lava. It was clear to me she had to be found guilty. I don't know how she infected me, but I must have ingested something. I don't remember having taken anything.”  
“You said the poison could induce memory loss.”  
“It doesn't always happen, but maybe; yes, there is some blanks I can't fill. I'm more inclined to think she drugged me twice, the first time to make me comply – probably by injection -, the second to kill me. Both drugs would have been untraceable. But I think however good she is, she miscalculated the dose, or she didn't calculated at all and used a dose she had prepared for her niece. I believe she only did this once, on a eighteen year old girl, a dose lethal for her given her size and weight would only incapacitate me. But she doesn't know that.”  
“What makes you think she'll know it worked?”  
“Because you're gonna tell it. She must know I don't work alone, she'll expect my personal blogger to tell the world his best friend is dying.”  
“I'm not sure I can do that.”  
“You can. Sadly, you had practice.”  
“Right. Why would she fall for it? What do you think she'll do? When she sees you're dying, what do you expect her to do? She will come to see by herself, huh? To make sure you are really dying. That's it?”  
“Yes. And I believe she will trust your sorrow. She'll come.”  
“Alright, but we need a plan. When she comes, we must have the police ready to catch her. We will have no proof against her if she don't talk. I'm gonna call Lestrade, and then we'll set up a trap. They'll be listening, and I'll be watching. Over there. (John pointed at the bathroom's door) I'll be hiding there, so if she tries anything, I'll be there.”  
“Just as if you were reading my mind.” Sherlock exhaled, smiling. “But don't go too fast, she will expect the poison to take effect slowly. Tomorrow. She'll come when the hospital is quiet, so the night it is. You can start to spread the news, tell it on your blog, Sherlock Holmes is severely sick, there is no hope of amelioration. Send it now.”  
“Alright.” John said while pulling his phone out of his pocket. He began to type, writing what Sherlock had suggested, in his own words. “It's done.”  
“Good. Send updates every few hours, respond to people, it has to be believable.”  
“Don't worry. I'm a storyteller, I know what to do.”

John placed his phone back in his pocket, and Sherlock closed his eyes. After a while it was like he was sleeping, but John know he was only thinking, so he asked:

“Why did she killed her niece?”  
“Inheritance, obviously. Victoria was about to receive a lot of money from her recently passed away grand-mother, the aunt would have had almost nothing, so she killed the girl to get the money.”  
“That's awful.”  
“Yes. People can be so greedy. She thought she could get away unsuspected, but when I came she had to get rid of me. She knew who I was, she knew she wouldn't stand a chance with me alive.”  
“She wouldn't have had either if you were dead. And I'm not sure I would have had the patience to set a trap.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at John, shocked, frowning. A single glance was confirming him John wasn't joking. He would have not just given justice, he would have had revenge.  
“Then you would have ruined your life.”  
“There would be no life left.”  
“Don't say that. John, I'm serious, if anything would happen to me. Again. I mean, if I couldn't make it again – nobody can be that lucky. I need to know you'd keep going.”  
“That's a promise I can't make.”  
“You're life is worth living, even if I'm not in it. It's important to me to believe you can have a long life, that you will try your best to fill it with all the goodness the world has to offer. I've devoted my life for it to be possible, I can't leave with the thought that it was useless, that I did it for nothing. I don't ask you to promise, just to consider that if I die, you will honour my memory by living. It's all I will ever expect from you. I will expect for you to survive.”

The silence settled between them, heavy – outside the muffled sound of steps and voices. John tried to protest, to say that Sherlock was his whole life, that any life without him wasn't worth living, that it was hypocrite of him to ask this knowing that he had put his life at stake multiple times for John to be safe, instead he remained silent, nailed by Sherlock silver eyes, grave and leaving no room for protest. John felt a weight on his stomach, he couldn't agree, he couldn't contest, he was trapped between the certainty that he couldn't live a life without Sherlock and the desire to honour Sherlock's wish. 

“Let's pray for it to never happen, then.” John finally said. “I will do my best so we don't have to think of it before your hair is grey as silver and arthritis nibbling your bones.”  
“Sounds like a good compromise.” Sherlock replied, softly, his voice still tainted by solemnity, smiling at the dream of he and John growing old together. He stretched his hand toward John, who took it before it had left the border of the bed. 

Sherlock's temperature was normal, John noted, and he sighed. Even if he knew by the doctor Sherlock was nearly healed and out of danger, he felt grateful and relieved not to feel the fire Sherlock's skin had become. It was like a final proof that Sherlock will live, will be safe and sound.   
He wished to keep Sherlock's hand in his own for the rest of his life, thinking “it belongs there”. Sherlock kept his eyes on John as long as he could before tiredness forced him to close them. He fell into a light sleep, for a couple hours, and John never stopped watching over him.   
“ _You have done enough._ ” He thought. “ _I will protect you._ ”  
In his sleep, Sherlock mumbled “ _my John_ ”, a whisper, so low John was sure he heard it, before diving back in silence only troubled by his calm snoring.   
John made use of the moment to update his blog, aggravating the detective's real state of health, making it look as it was nearly the end. Not entering into details, he wrote the description of Sherlock's hallucinatory state, drawing from his memory his impressions, saying just enough to express the seriousness of Sherlock's state.  
While he was typing, he must have squeezed Sherlock's hand a bit tighter, because he shifted in the bed, moaning, pulling John's hand closer to him.

“It's alright sweetheart, don't worry. Everything's alright.” John didn't even took the time to think the words that came instinctively out of his mouth.

Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly, gasping.

“What did you say?”  
“I said everything is alright. You seemed to have a bad dream.”  
“Oh. I was dreaming?”  
“It seems, yes.”  
“Oh.” Sherlock sounded almost disappointed. “That wasn't a dream this bad. Felt like a nice memory. I'm actually sad it was nothing but a dream.”  
“I'm sorry I woke you up, then.”  
“It's ok. What time is it?”  
“8pm. Diner time, if you're hungry.”  
“No.”  
“Liar. You haven't ate anything since God knows when, you must be starving. A nurse left a plate while you were sleeping.”  
“It must be cold by now, I could as well not eat it.”  
“Don't be childish, eat.”  
“And you?”  
“I'm ok.”  
“I'll eat only if we share. Deal?”  
“As you wish.”

At nine John had to leave, hurried by a nurse who pestering with the fact visits where never allowed after eight.   
“I'll come back as soon as possible”, John promised, his hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder, comforting.  
“Are you gonna... come back to your home?”  
“Yes.” John answered, thinking that his home will always mean Baker Street, though it didn't seemed completely like home without Sherlock.  
“Oh.” A bit of disappointment John heard as clearly as a scream.   
“Does it bothers you?”  
“No.” Sherlock answered after a bit of reflection, trying to hide how much it did, in fact, bothered him to think about John going back the house that was so far and so full of lies. He never really understood why John stayed there instead of coming back in the flat that'll always be their health, their haven, home. “You do as you wish.”  
“Alright then. See you tomorrow.”  
Sherlock said goodbye waving his hand at John stepping outside the room, and as the lights were being turned off, he stared at the ceiling and wished for John to hold him again, to ease his way through the darkness of the night and dreams – and wished to be home, dreamt of John voice whispering “ _I'm coming home. I'm staying home with you forever_ ”.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John spent the morning in a sweet stillness, only broken by their laughs and tales of some event the other wasn't already aware of – sometimes they were, but listened as if they were hearing the story for the first time. For whomever would have walked into the room, they would have looked like two children playing or, more accurately, two lovers teasing each other, as there was in their eyes sparkles and in their smiles the light of thousands “I love you”.

Molly came, watching inside from the small space between the door and its frame, she didn't wanted to interrupt their laughing, and it hit her, maybe for the first time in its whole glory, how ridiculously in love they were, how blind they must have been not to see that it has always been there, since the first chapters of their story.   
Once she would have felt bitter, now she was feeling like it was an evidence, that these two men were meant to be together, that there has always been the two of them. Just the two of them. She smiled, content that something had been unlocked, that soon, everything will be just right it has always meant to be, if only they could brace a little bit of courage.

Lestrade's hand landed on her shoulder, a comforting heat she never thought she'd need before it became as obvious as a heartbeat, she turned to greet him with a kiss, before he handed one of the two cups he was holding.

“How they doin'?” He asked, voice low.  
“Sherlock must be completely healed by now. They're alright.”  
“Thank God. Do you think we should interrupt them? John called me for the case, but, maybe it can wait.”  
“Yah. It can.” Molly answered absent-mindedly as she looked fondly at the two men inside the room laughing with each other, unaware of their presence. “We should give them some time for them alone.”  
“Agreed.” After a while he added: “I'm glad to see them smile again. It became so rare these past years.”  
“ What happened with Mary. It affected all of us, but them more than anyone else. And I don't just mean the shooting, and the lies, but, you know, it hurt them so bad.”  
“They're healing.”  
“Right.” Molly said as she was stepping backward. “They'll be alright now.”

They sat on the hallway chairs, waiting for the moment when it will feel fair to disturb Sherlock and John's tranquillity.

In the room, Sherlock interrupted himself as he was talking about his last experiment, how it made the flat stink for three whole days, infuriating Mrs Hudson.   
“Did you heard?”  
“What?”  
“I think it was Greg and Molly. Maybe we should tell them to come in.”  
“I'd rather let them wait a little more. I want to know how the story ends. Your experiment.”  
“We will have time for this later.”  
“Maybe.” John conceded with regret. He stood up to the doorway, bending toward the outside – turning his head to the left then to the right until he spotted his friends waiting, Lestrade head resting on the wall, Molly's hand in his own.

“Hi!”  
“Hi John!” Molly answered, walking toward the room, soon followed by Lestrade.  
“So.” The later said without any further introduction. “How d'you plan to proceed?”  
“Culley Smith will check on me, she must have seen the updates John published regularly on his blog.”  
“How are you so sure she does?” Molly asked.  
“She needs to be sure she succeeded to murder me, she can't afford to let me just go away and wish for good luck. She'll come. John will be posted in the bathroom, wired, so Lestrade and his team can hear her confessions.”  
“You can't be sure she'll confess.”  
“There's not so much use to keep the truth from a dying man. I'll make sure she will.”  
“You seem sure of yourself.”  
“Am I not always?”  
“Sure. But what if it doesn't go as planed?”  
“We'll improvise.”  
“Ok. Let's admit she do everything as you intend her to, there's still a problem. I can see you look as well as a newborn kitten, she will never believe you're dying.”  
“Never underestimate the usefulness of a good doctor, Lestrade.”

John stepped closer to the bed, pulling a box from his pocket, opening it so Lestrade and Molly can see its content: a syringe and a bottle.

“You are crazy!” Molly shouted, horrified.   
“Don't think I'm happy with that.” John replied.  
“That's the only way to recreate most of the symptoms her poison induced. I'll fake the others – a little bit of make up and it will be impossible to suspect I'm as healthy as I can be. John and I calculated the dosage so it only makes me look sick, he will watch over the whole thing.”  
“There must be another way.” Lestrade said, worried.  
“This is the only one that'll work, I'm afraid.”  
“Ok. Ok.” Lestrade paced back and forth, holding his hand in the air in front of him, the other wiping his face. “But you don't know when you'll need to do it, do you? You can't inject this shit in yourself without knowing when you'll need its effects to be apparent.”  
“I suspect Smith will come when the hospital is quiet, though she needs to make herself appear as a normal visitor, so, around seven, eight pm – she must avoid diner time, so, after six. The drug will make me phase out for at least three hours, that leaves all the time we need.”  
“I will do the injection at six pm.” John added, sounding obviously angry, trying to avoid looking at Sherlock. He would have rather avoided it if he could. The box felt heavy in his hand.

He had to gather all his efforts to focus on the conversation, as Lestrade explained where his men will be posted, ready to catch the criminal as soon as the signal is given. As soon as it will be done, John would take care of Sherlock. Molly will make sure no employee come to disturb them – she will brief the staff and coordinate their actions. The director of Saint Barts had already been warned by Lestrade.   
When there was no more unanswered question, Molly and Greg left the room, not without giving a last glance at Sherlock and John, full of worry and reproach.   
Two hours later, Sherlock looked at his watch.

“It's time.” He said gravely.   
John took the box that was lying on the table next to Sherlock's bed, hefting it as if he was measuring its importance, his lips joined in a pout that Sherlock had since a long time learned to recognise as the expression of his resentment.   
Silent, John took the syringe and the bottle in his hand, sniffed in anger as he was putting the box back in his pocket, and filled the syringe with the liquid the bottle contained, placed it on the bed beside Sherlock before tying a tourniquet around Sherlock right arm, above his elbow. He let his fingers linger on the soft pale skin where the veins outcropped, swollen and thick, he traced the length of the biggest vein as he took the syringe and brushed the skin with the needle.

“I can't do that.” he said while suddenly letting go of Sherlock's arm, looking at the syringe as if it was a weapon. “I can't.”  
“You have to.”  
“Do it yourself then. Ask someone else. I can't.”  
“John. Please. This is the only way.”  
“Why don't you ask someone else?”  
“There is only one person I trust enough to do this. I trust you more than anyone else.”  
“I swore to heal, not to harm." John shouted loudly. "Especially not you. I'd rather cut my hands off than... this.”   
“You won't do me any harm. I will be ok, I promise.”  
“Can you stop making promises you know you can't keep? I've had enough of promises.” John almost screamed, his voice breaking on the last word.  
“John, I always keep my promises. After all I'm still there. I promised I'll be there for you, I promised I'd keep you safe, I promised... I am still there. It won't be any different this time. I'll come back to you, and I swear this will be the last time, I will never ask you to do this again, never again. So quick, John, if you love me, do it. Do it so we can put that in the past with all the rest, I promise you I will be ok. I promise you tomorrow it'll only be a bad memory, let's get away with it and finish it so we can go home and forget it. Please.”

John locked his gaze on Sherlock's begging eyes, and pierced his skin with the needle, he looked angrier than he ever had been. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said when John threw the syringe in the trash can, untying the tourniquet.  
“Don't thank me for that.”

 

They didn't had to wait long before the first effects can be seen – after a sudden rush of fake gleefulness, Sherlock began to sweat and became nervous, restless, his pulse and blood pressure elevating, his skin getting cold, then hot, his pupils dilated, his breath shortening, his skin getting terribly paler than it already was. John was horrified at how quickly Sherlock passed from well-being to looking like a cadaver – though his sense of time must have been twisted, a day could have passed, he wouldn't have noticed, feeling it as an eternity.   
John took note of every change, searching in his memory the little physical details the drug couldn't imitate, recreating them, like the dark circles under his eyes, dreadfully dull in contrast with the alabaster of his skin and the greenish silver of his eyes, John felt slightly relieved that they were unreal - and he felt as if someone ripped his entrails out, powerless, unable to do anything to ease his lover's pain. He was furious, more at himself than Sherlock, feeling as if he could have resisted harder. As if he could have find another way.

“Go hide now.” Sherlock had to grunt to John who was unable to move away from his bedside. 

John took a few steps backward, incapable of taking his eyes off of Sherlock, then turned away to enter the bathroom. He shut the door, leaving a small slot so he would be able to hear and see what was happening. He slid his back against the wall next to the door and sat on the ground. He joined his knees under his chin and covered his eyes with his hands, and hoped Sherlock couldn't hear him wail.


	7. Chapter 7

_Clac. Clac. Clac._

The sound of steps echoed in the silent hallway, becoming louder as the woman was approaching the room – ending in a slide on the linoleum.   
A sigh. 

“So the blogger was right.” A low, grave, musical voice, with the irregularity of a smoker's voice. “You are in a bad shape, Mr Holmes, I was sorry to hear.”  
“Who's there?” Sherlock whispered, his voice expressing his pain and tiredness. John had trouble to believe it was acted as much it sounded awfully real.  
John heard her walk a few steps, then the sound of a chair, he looked through the ajar door, and saw a small woman, with hazelnut hair joined in a bun, looking forty, maybe fifty, dressed in a navy blue suit, wearing black high heels – she placed her bag at her side on the chair, and a green pearl shone at her earlobe as she moved.  
She took Sherlock wrist between her long fingers, lifted it at her eyes height, then dropped it. Sherlock arm fell on the mattress with a loud thump, bounced and rolled outside the bed, making Sherlock exhale a moan full of ache.  
In silence, John clenched his fists and jaws until the muscles started to hurt, yet urging himself to stay still and quiet. 

“It's such a shame, really.” Culley Smith continued, always with the same hypnotic voice. “Such a pitiful ending for the best detective of all times. In another circumstances I would have given you the honour you deserved. However, it's for the best. You will go as silent as a cat under the moonlight, isn't it satisfying? You should thank me.”  
“Make them stop...” Sherlock sobbed, putting his hands on his ears. The woman bent over him and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling them at his side, as to force him to listen to the voices only him was hearing.  
“They're inside your head.” She chanted, her voice melodious. “They won't stop. There is no need to try escaping them. This is all in your head.”  
“Moriarty!” Sherlock cried, his eyes wide open in terror.  
“Ah ah! I wish. If you hadn't killed him maybe I wouldn't have had the trouble to have my hands dirty.”  
“The screams... Angels are dying, they're screaming!”  
“It will be over soon. You will get the silence you crave for, but I fear you will not be able to appreciate it as you wish to. You're consciousness will be far off, somewhere in Hell maybe. This is were you deserve to be.”  
“Why? Why did you have to kill the angel?”  
“The angel?” Culley mocked. “This little bitch was a pain in the ass, she got my own mother under her thumb, this miserable cunt, with her smiles and her bows and scrapes. She was all but an angel.”  
“You killed her, like you're killing me.”  
“I did. I had to.”  
“How.”  
“You know how, don't be stupid, you have it in your veins.”  
“I'm dying.”  
“Yes, I've noted that.”  
“Before I go. Tell me how you made me took it.”

The woman smiled and waved graciously her fingers in the air, joining them in her fists in front of her as she told:

“Hypnosis. The brain is as complicated as simple. Simple to manipulate. You took the poison yourself. Which is ravishing considering people under hypnosis don't usually do something they wouldn't do normally. I've heard before about your addictions, I just had to convice you it was something like cocain, or such, didn't mattered, you took it, you pathetic junkie. In the end this is all the great detective was, nothing but a manipulable addict. It was more difficult with Victoria, the little saint. I had to force things a bit.”  
“You won. One last thing, for the pathetic junkie, please, I'd like a last cigarette. In my coat – left pocket.”  
“Well. I guess I can grant you that. It's not what's gonna kill you.”

That was the signal. As Culley Smith walked to Sherlock's Belstaff, digging her hands on the pocket, saying: “You are going to die alone. I'm almost sorry to see your friend isn't there to see you fall.”, John came out of his hideout, sneaking silently behind the woman, grabbing her elbow to make her turn. A look of surprise distorted her traits as she was suddenly realising her mistake. 

“He's never alone.” John snorted. “Don't you read my blog? There's always the two of us.”

John pulled her to the ground before she could make a move, taking care of not harming her – however strongly he wanted to - her hands tightly maintained behind her back. Three policemen entered the room, followed by Lestrade who claimed the usual line: “Culley Smith, I arrest you with the charge of murder on Victoria Jenkins and attempted murder on Sherlock Holmes. You have the right to remain silent, if you choose to give up that right, everything you will say can and will be be used against you in a court of law.”

“It doesn't matter! He's dead anyway!” the woman shouted, madness in her eyes as she laughed, while a policeman was handcuffing her. “That's my least consolation - your precious detective is dying! I have killed Sherlock Holmes!”  
“Don't be so sure of that, lady Smith,” Sherlock said with a calm, steady voice, pushing away the sheets to stand up from the bed, walking toward her, chin up, “you'd be surprised to see the wonders an ingenious staging can do. Can make you believe one's death.”  
“What?!”  
“You'll have to wait a little more longer until you see me fall, I'm afraid.”  
“How the fuck...”  
“A grotesque error. Miscalculation. Pitiful. Goodbye, _madame_.”

As soon as the woman was out of sight, taken away by the police, Sherlock stumbled, his knees weak, fell sat on the bed, and wiped the make up under his eyes with the back of his hands, leaving purple trails on his skin.   
He rose an hand toward John as he was hurrying to help him.

“I'm ok. Pass me my clothes please.”  
“You should stay here tonight.”  
“John, please, I want to go home. Don't worry, I've had worse.”  
“As you fucking wish.” John replied, bitter, his tone full of reproach and anger. He grabbed Sherlock's clothes and handed it to him. The sadness in Sherlock's humid, reddened eyes, was so poignant John suddenly regretted his anger, he could feel Sherlock's pain flow through his own veins, as vivid as if it was his own.  
“I will never ask you anything like that again, John. I'm sorry. Truly I am.”  
“Do you honestly realise what you made me do to you?”  
“I do.” Sherlock answered softly. “I am so sorry.”

John crossed the distance between them and took Sherlock's head between his hands by the temples, pulling his head back so he laid a long kiss on his forehead, making Sherlock gasp in a deep sigh, then he pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. His forehead resting just above John's belly, Sherlock let out another sigh as John ran his hands on the back of his head, caressing the patch of skin behind his ear with his thumb.  
They stood entwined for a long while, Sherlock's head moving slowly to the rhythm of John's breath, his hands hanging on John's forearms.

“Never again.” John said.  
“Never. It was unjustifiable even for me, and doubly so, thousand times so, to drag into it the best man the world can hold, the dearest friend I ever had. John, I am so sorry. So sorry. Trust me I'm sorry. I'm begging you, can you forgive me?”  
“I trust you, Sherlock, and yes, I forgive you, I always do. My weakness. But don't you ever ask me again to play with your life, is that understood?”  
“Oh God, yes.”  
“I'm still angry, though.”  
“I know.” Sherlock huffed, smiling. “I can't expect any less of you. This is a meagre punishment for my faults.”  
“I'll sing until your ears bleed, is that enough?”  
Sherlock laughed.  
“Anything you want.”  
“No experiments for a month.”  
“Anything.”  
“You'll do the laundry.”  
“Granted.”  
“You'll walk the dog.”  
“We have no dog!”  
“We'll adopt one.”  
“Alright. I'll learn to cook.”  
“Oh, dear God, no way! But I will.”  
“I will eat everything you'll cook. Even if it coasts me my stomach.”  
“Let's go home then.” John pulled away from Sherlock, he felt the ghost of him against his body follow him.  
Sherlock dressed and together they left.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock threw his coat on his chair and went straight away to the bathroom to take a shower, unaware of John's stuff filling the voids they had left for four years.

John sat on his chair to read a newspaper, quiet in the silence of the night filling the flat with the warm ambiance that he realised he missed so much. Hearing the water from the other room, he smiled, content to feel at home. It was almost perfect. Soon Sherlock will come out of the bathroom, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown – his tee put back to front, the label sticking out on his neck -, and he'll fall onto the sofa and will fall in a light sleep before rushing to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea and turn the tv on to watch some silly show he will barely pay attention to only for correcting it.

He will then go into his room, and John will go in his, and this is where John's thoughts began to darken, because however he considered coming back being the best decision he took since a long while, he was afraid of falling back into their old dynamic, even more now that he have had a glimpse of what perfection resembled of. He could almost still sense the taste of Sherlock's lips, the scent of his hair, the warmth of his body. He promised himself he would find the courage to try again, to say the words again, though he could give it some time. The priority now was to make sure Sherlock was recovering, later will come the moment to be brave. Though he kept reading with the sensation that it could be easier this time, that something had been unlocked during the past couple days. Something shifted since that night, as if a weight have been taken off his chest. He was sure now things could be easier – he had hope again, a hope he believed had disappeared long ago, on a Christmas night.

 

Sherlock hurried back in the living-room, his jacket off and the top of his shirt unbuttoned, his face and some curls damped with water, all traces of make up and sweat washed away.   
He looked astonished, and stopped barefoot on the kitchen entrance, taking a glance around the flat, he saw John's laptop on the desk, John's books on the shelf, his cup on the table beside him, and all the little details marking John's presence, before finally looking at the chair that had been emptied for too long, stopping on the so familiar sight of John reading the news, his legs spread in front of him, his shoes aligned carefully near the health, as he always used to do.   
He stared at John a long moment, waiting for something, waiting for John to put the paper down and his shoes on, and waiting for the goodbye that would follow, waiting for John to leave him alone with the silence of the flat. But John didn't moved, didn't seemed to hear him, and he was settling more than preparing to go away – hope rose in Sherlock's chest as he began to understand what John had been saying to him all along. 

“John?”  
“What's it?” John asked without looking up from his paper.  
Sherlock blinked, his eyelashes as butterflies wings, trying to make sense of the obvious.  
“So this means you...”  
John looked up and at the sight of Sherlock's surprise he knew right away what he was about to ask him. He smiled, unsure, with a kindness in his eyes that was Sherlock's privilege to arise.  
“If you don't mind, yes. I'm moving in.”

Sherlock expression went blank, as if the information was overwhelming him, grilling his capacity of reflection. He had always hoped for John to come back, it had brought him to the edge of madness, as strong was the desire to have John – his John, living with him, existing next to him. He had failed to understand why John choose to stay away, at some point he began to believe it was just that Baker Street wasn't his home anymore, that he had no desire to come back in his old life. He had moved on. Mary wasn't apparently the whole reason for which John had decided to go away, and this realisation shattered his heart into a million pieces. It was not that John choose to live with Mary, it was that John choose not to live with Sherlock anymore – Sherlock convinced himself. Dead in his soul he surrendered to the fact, and sucked it up, burying it in his heart, only the night to witness his sorrow.   
So when he saw John's toothbrush next to his own it was so unexpected that he had to take a minute to be sure it wasn't his imagination, and his brain failed to connect the dots to make appear the evidence: John was back home.  
He wanted to ask if it was the truth, afraid of the answer. Was he still dreaming? Or did he misheard? Is he coming home for good? 

John waited patiently for him to put words on his thoughts, however after a few minutes he decided to talk for Sherlock instead to clear his mind from the questions running haphazardly behind his eyes, resting on none. 

“I'm coming home. For real. If you don't mind. I mean, I thought about asking you, but you were kinda... It wasn't the moment for that. Unless you don't want me to...”  
“No!” Sherlock shouted, coming back suddenly to reality. “I mean, I often considered... asking you to. Well. I didn't thought you... would want to.” Sherlock took a deep breathe. “I am... I am happy. I missed you.”  
“You're a sweetheart, Sherlock, I'm happy too. I missed you too. I'm sorry it took me such a long time to decide. It was a bit difficult, and I thought you would have asked. I wasn't sure I could. Didn't wanted to intrude.”  
“You can't intrude in your own home, John. It has always be our home. So much ours that I started to feel like it was incomplete the moment I realised your chair would remain empty.”  
“I understand. This is because of this that I moved out in the first place, I couldn't look around and pretend it was my home still. You weren't there anymore, and I thought you'd never come back. It was too much pain. The flat isn't important. The soul that inhabits it is, and it doesn't exist without you.”  
“It doesn't exist without you either. But you are home now. It feels like home again.”

The words sank in between them as they smiled to each other, and as suddenly as he appeared in the room, Sherlock's face went blank again, knocked over by some kind of revelation his mind was trying to make him aware of.  
Sherlock stood a while where he was, searching in his mind for something, something he said, something he heard – something he pushed away in the depths of his mind, believing it was were it belonged. The thought came, incoherent, unbelievable, as a flow of images and sounds and feelings of a memory rolled as a waterfall behind his wide open eyes, a memory he had swore to remember. And the only word Sherlock could exhale was: “Sweetheart.”

John was taken aback, his smile falling on his face as he was remembering clearly how and when he said the word coming to his ears as an echo of his own voice, that has been wandering lost in the obscurity of a surrealistic night that had began to feel like a dream. Truly unbelievable. 

“What are you saying?” He asked hesitantly, the words falling hard on his tongue.  
“ _Sweetheart_. You said it. I thought I was dreaming but I wasn't. I wasn't dreaming, John. It was real. It wasn't a dream. It was real, it was real... John.”

John dropped his paper on the floor as the meaning of Sherlock's words crossed the distance between them, ran through his bones and mind and heart. 

“You remember.” He murmured, noting the tears in Sherlock's eyes, his heart filled with relief. “Oh, Sherlock...”  
He stood up and walked the two steps separating him from his felicity and peace and happiness. He rose his hand to Sherlock's face, traced the curve of Sherlock's cheek, capturing a tear on his finger, wiping them away.

“You remember.” He repeated in a sob, feeling as if a knot was being untied in his throat.  
“I promised you I will.” Sherlock answered on the same tone.  
“You did.” John laughed, tears falling, a mix of happiness and relief. “I thought you forgot.”  
“I thought I was hallucinating.”

John captured Sherlock's lower lip between his own, sucking it softly, shyly, Sherlock pulled him closer, crashing his mouth on John's, their breath short they kissed as if their lives depended on it. Thinking of it – in a way it did. They kissed with the passion they concealed for so long, a lifetime – their movements uncoordinated and hurried, noses and teeth clashing, tasting each other's tongue, and lips, and skin, their hands flying from neck to waist to buttons to shoulders, caressing, grabbing, discovering, bold and curious and greedy – they cheeks and nerves ablaze.  
The whole world ceased to exist as they walked entwined to Sherlock's room, space became a minor hindrance, as they pushed a chair that was standing in their way, undisturbed by the loud sound it made when it fell on the ground, a glass shattered after John's shirt made it fall, Sherlock threw away a bunch of papers from the kitchen table when he tried to steady himself, the sheets following the unstoppable movement of their two bodies making their way to the darkened room. Sherlock's hand was shaking on the doorknob, though the door didn't resisted long and was harshly thrown against the wall behind.

They fell on the bed, John on top of Sherlock, kissing him desperately, his hands caressing the soft skin of Sherlock's flanks, making their way to his waist, he traced the line of his hips, his mouth exploring the skin that seemed to glow in the darkness, illuminated by the dim light of the moon, he caught Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth, arising a loud moan from Sherlock's throat as he sucked it, shivering at the magnificent sound.   
John stopped a moment, pulling away from Sherlock, looking the man under him as if it was the first time, their gaze locked. Sherlock's eyes were tainted with the shadow of desire, dark and clear all at once, his mouth half open, his hands sliding against John's chest. He was so beautiful, John thought, without realising the words escaped his mouth. Sherlock straightened to lick John's skin, sucking and nibbling the skin of his shoulder and along his neck.

“I love you.” John groaned, the palm of his hand running on Sherlock's torso, shoulder and neck, he grabbed his silky curls and went for another kiss, even deeper, making Sherlock fall again on his back. He dug his fingers on Sherlock's flank as he arched under him, impatient, hurrying on John's belt to untie it.  
As fast as the blink of an eye, they were naked, thrusting against each other suavely, teasing each other, their hands and mouths letting no patch of skin uncovered, as if they wanted to draw a map of the other in their memory, to keep it close forever, to know the other's body as their own, their hearts beating so fast they once believed it could burst into flame.

“John!” Sherlock shouted as he came, the name holding all his adoration, the “I love you”s, all the words he never could say, however hard he tried, all the love that was consuming his heart, dying of escaping, urging to be set free, all contained in one syllable, the only one that ever mattered to be spoken. John came soon after, and panting lied on Sherlock's body, his head against Sherlock's heart, their breaths and scents melting as one.  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, holding him as tight as he could, a hand resting on the crook of John's back, the other arm around his shoulders. He laid a kiss on John's forehead, exhaling “I love you, John, my love, I love you, I love you”. 

 

Exhausted and happy they closed their eyes, feeling at peace for the first time of their lives.   
They slept, dreamt of bright tomorrows, smiling at the certainty that they'd wake up on each other's arms. Feeling finally that everything had fell right into place, their heart filled with the happiness that they will have the rest of their lives to praise their love and beauty and bodies, again and again without the fear of being rejected, for the rest of their lives.   
As the night settled around them, carrying their steady breaths and protecting their dreams of love and happiness, they held each other closely, lullied by their heartbeats and warmth.

As the dawn was darting its first rays of light, the city – silent witness of their whole story – waking up, Sherlock opened his eyes, slowly coming back to consciousness, dozy and yawning, his eyes blinking away the mists of slumber and tears of tiredness, he looked down on John half sprawled against him, his arm and leg weighing comfortably on him, feeling his warm breath against his chest, he smiled.

It was real.

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry. 
> 
> Oh and it was my first long length fic, yay. woohoo!
> 
> And also, if you wonder why I've genderbent Culverton Smith. First: LOL have you taken a look at that name? :o) *gross laughing* No but seriously though it was for the reference to The Woman in Green by Roy W. Neil, with Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Watson. Hence the green earrings and hypnosis.


End file.
